


The Madness Between The Notes

by Heroic_Euphoria



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 18th Century, Drug Use, Gen, Historical References, Internal Conflict, No Romance, No Sex, Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-05 02:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1802527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heroic_Euphoria/pseuds/Heroic_Euphoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roderich Edelstein is a highly noted and prestigious composer living in Vienna during the year of 1767. Often taking commissions, he is offered a job he just cannot refuse. It may be the piece that initially drives him to insanity attempting to compose. With uncertainties rising, will the composer finish his work or die trying?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enlightened Yet Lost, Respectively

**Author's Note:**

> I have rated this "M" for content later in the story, possibly for language and violence but this story will not contain any explicit scenes of sex, or any graphic descriptions of it.
> 
> As for the first chapter, there is nothing "M" rated about it. When chapters contain this in the future, I will put a warning in this top Author's Note bar. There are notes at the bottom of the page, after the story for all words bolded and italicized (foreign language words) and all words italicized with a star* (historical references). Enjoy! :)

It was once said by someone very wise and fairly observant that  _all artists are mad in some way or anothe_ r, or for that matter _anyone who is remotely interesting is_   _mad_. Who said it first doesn't matter now, it's been said by so many over the course of time. There are many who fit under the statements above perfectly, in fact, a bit too much so for the normal human to stand. However, this story will examine the mind and final masterpiece of one fairly insane man, the one called  _The Plagued Pianist._

His name was Roderich Edelstein. Famed and prosperous, the year was 1767 and Roderich was at the height of his career as a composer. At this point mentally stable and enjoying all the fine upper class activities and festivities of the Viennese upper class. Vienna was a wondrous place to be Roderich Edelstein. He was called often to compose for the emperor, he wrote plays and symphonies, sometimes dabbling with this or that. He was considered the finest virtuoso among the public.

"A fine morning to you, Mr. Edelstein.  _ **Gruss Gott**_!" An upperclassman man greeted Roderich on a sunny morning during December.

"And to you as well, fine sir!" Roderich smiled and waved, walking in the direction opposite of the man. To be quite honest he had no clue or who the man was, but it didn't matter to him. The pianist simply didn't care and there is something to be said for that. Irritated he was, apathetic he was becoming, and late to a meeting currently. Friendly greetings was something the virtuoso just didn't have time for.

Walking along the streets, Roderich let his tailcoat flow behind him and walked at a fast pace that made some of the strolling citizens stop and look. This irritated the musician ever more simply because he was aware of the fact that they knew who he was and most certainly the folk are not those who keep their suspicions to themselves. Huffing and pushing his glasses further up his nose, Roderich turned the corner and soon found himself opening the doors to a small cafe where he was meeting a client. A client looking to pay money for a masterpiece from the great Edelstein. Roderich smiled to himself and walked into the cafe making eye contact with the first man he saw. Yes, that was his client, he knew right from the start. Long blond hair, flamboyant clothing, the air and arrogance of an upperclassman, but not Austrian. No, no, most certainly not Austrian.

" _ **Bonjour**_. The great and prestigious Roderich Edelstein, what a wonder for my eyes to see, and what a privilege for you to take a commission from me. Please sit and let's discuss over a cup of tea." The non-Austrian client spoke, his eyes sparkling with anticipation that was not shown on the rest of his face.

"Coffee, thank you. And, while you may be interested in  _me_  does not mean that I am interested in _you_ , let's keep that in mind, oh Bonaparte, was it?"

" _ **Non**_ , Bonnefoy. Francis Bonnefoy, if you care for full names. Simply judging by the fact you are here, I am not mistaken when I say that you received my letter and interest in your comission." The man spoke. Francis Bonaparte, a wealthy, enlightened man who was very pleased with himself. He was extremely proud and thought the world was in his hands, and slept at night with the thought in his mind that he understand the workings of the universe far better than those below him in the social structure.

"Why bother traveling here to to see me if Paris is such an enlightened place?" Roderich questioned as his coffee was set in front of him by a waitress, who recognized him and took the opportunity to speak.

"Oh, it that you? Mr Edelstein?! I admire the your works, your symphonies, and your plays! The piano pieces! Fantastic they are! I know I'm just a lowly waitress, but if I may ask, do you give lessons? I'd love to learn piano, it has been a dream of mine since I was a little girl. I wish to someday compose my own works as well." The girl smiled, hoping she wasn't asking for too much.

Roderich smiled and went to respond "Well, I-"

"Lowly woman! A composer? You think yourself in the educational realm of dominance? How appalling!" Francis scoffed, taking a sip of his tea.

The waitress was too upset and shocked at the French Parisian man to speak so Roderich spoke instead. "What? What is this that you speak of? An educational realm of dominance? Care to expand, Monsieur Bonnefoy?" He spoke the French man's name with a tone of condescension and irritation at his outburst. Roderich had heard about the new ideals and the  _Age of Reason*_  that many raved about but never cared. Music and composing beckoned him, he didn't care to waste time with useless information like the concept of  _laissez-faire economics*_  and the art of being _cosmopolitan*_.

"My, my, Mr. Edelstein this surprises me! You are among the privileged upper class, correct? Haven't you heard of the wondrous works of _Rousseau*_?" Francis looked at Roderich with surprise. "Aren't you enlightened, _ **mon ami**_?"

"No, I do not care for concepts and ideals formed by others. You follow their works like sheep, yet seldom think of alternatives? What a waste of good energy and lack of thought! Enlightenment? Don't make me laugh! But this.. this _Rosseau_ , remind me again of his "enlightened ideals" and how much _they've_   _changed you._ " This time Roderich scoffed and took a sip of his coffee, noticing that the waitress had disappeared.

"Well, I can spare a moment to explain a thing or two for the unenlightened.  _Rousseau_  wrote a very informative _treatise on education*_. You see, men are dominant in education and are free to embrace the sciences and the liberal arts. However, women are inferior and should be taught to submit to man and run the trivial things of the household."

"Ridiculous!" Roderich shouted, turning a few heads in the cafe.

"And you think differently?"

"Well, yes."

"May I ask why, _ **Herr Edelstein**_?" Francis responded with the same condescension Roderich had used earlier, which made the composer more irritated and angry than he had ever been with a client.

"Your thoughts are petty. Why would I turn down a student just because it's a young lady when they are paying me for my services! What fool would let money run through their fingertips just because someone has breasts and the ability to bear children?"

"Your ideals are appalling." Francis picked lint off his flamboyant clothing with disgust.

"And you are enlightened yet lost, respectively."

"Will this in anyway affect the commission?"

"Possibly, just make your offer good enough to make me change my mind." Roderich leaned in and folded his hands on the table. He was eager to quit speaking of petty opinions and ideals and get to why he met the Frenchman in the first place. Commission and money.

"Well, yes. I want you to write a _requiem*_  for my mother. She is dying."

"My sincerest condolences. When will you need this by?" The composer was now straight to the point with Francis, already tired of him.

"Well, here's the thing, she wants to hear what will be played at her funeral."

"Most certainly corpses don't have the pleasure or privilege of hearing."

"She's not dead yet, fool!" Francis snapped, and quickly recomposed himself and continued. "She would like to hear it from you while you're composing it, which would mean you would need to be in Paris."

"Paris? And leave my dearest Vienna behind? I think not." Roderich folded his handkerchief and gently dabbed it along his face, as if he was concluding his meal and preparing to leave.

"I'll give you your own apartment and whatever supplies needed. Double the salary I offered in my letter. My mother wishes for it to be no one other than you. If you will, please accept. You may return to Vienna after the requiem is complete."

This offer impressed Roderich. He had received none other like it. Even if the man was a little off with his ideals, he could be bearable long enough to complete the task at hand. And a requiem seemed simple enough, after all that the prestigious composer had accomplished. Double the salary was enticing as well. It was too fine of a deal for the great Roderich Edelstein not to accept, even if it meant moving to Paris for a short while. Vienna was dear to his heart, but it would always be there waiting for him.

"I accept. And only on one condition." Roderich stated, pushing his glasses on his nose and straightening the purple fabric of his jacket.

"And what is that?" Francis smiled, having getting what he wanted after traveling all the way to Vienna.

"You shut up about your ideals."

Francis laughed pushed his bright, blond hair from his face. "You may get me to shut up about my ideals but not the others! Haven't you heard that Paris is the center of the Enlightenment?"

"Well, thank God I shall be getting paid double to stand people like you."

"Certainly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on References used in the story:
> 
> Language References:
> 
> 1.) "Gruss Gott!" :(German; translates as "God's Greetings or Blessings") Common greeting phrase used in Austria.
> 
> 2.) "Bonjour." : French greeting for "Hello".
> 
> 3.) "Non": French for "No".
> 
> 4.) "Monsieur" : French for "Mister".
> 
> 5.) "Mon ami" : French for "My friend".
> 
> 6.) "Herr" : German for "Mister"
> 
> Historical References:
> 
> 1.) Age of Reason* : Also termed The Enlightenment was a period in European history where people began to question the world around them, with advances in science and increases in philosophy and creative thinking. Spanned from about 1600-1800. Many ideals of today come from this time period such as "All men are created equal".
> 
> 2.) Laissez-Faire economics* : French for "Let it be"and a type of economics system where the economy "naturally" runs itself without any government interference. (Such as restrictions or tariffs). This concept was gaining popularity during this time period. Notable people connected to this are Quesnay and the Physiocrats in France.
> 
> 3.) Cosmopolitan* : Definition : A person who is familiar and accepting of many other cultures and countries, "worldly". Another concept gaining popularity during this time period.
> 
> 4.) Rousseau* : Jean-Jacques Rousseau was a Genevan philosopher best known for his contributions to the Enlightenment with his political philosophy. His works influenced the French Revolution and developments regarding education.
> 
> 5.) Treatise on Education* : Reference to Rousseau's work entitled Emile that examines a philosophy of education that divides men and women into two different fields of education. Male education is superior to female education and they are taught separately. Males are taught sciences, math, liberal arts, and are free to be leaders. Women are considered inferior and the education proves to be so by teaching them that they must treat men as superior and learn the domestic arts.
> 
> 6.) Requiem* : (Mass of the Dead) A musical piece for the mass of a deceased person. Most often used during funerals, however, not always.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this work! This is my very first multi-chapter piece of writng. Honestly, it's my first story longer than about 2500 words. Any constructive (yet kind!) criticism is welcome by me. :D Also, if there are any small typos I'm am very sorry! I edit all my works on my own and at times it seems just about impossible to find the little ones. (even with my perfectionist tendencies) Playing search and destroy with typos is quite challenging! haha. xD
> 
> I hope you have a lovely day! :)


	2. Farewell, My Dear Beloved Vienna

Francis looked at Roderich with a glint of anticipation and a look of success written across his features. He finally had found what he was looking for, all this time, going through all the networks and talking to the plain old folk to find this man. The musician, with his long and elegant fingers and a face that just gave off a sense of intelligence and higher stature. It would be intimidating for someone who wasn't Francis, or similar to him, with the air of aristocracy and pure privilege, above all else. Francis knew how people like Roderich ticked, what made them seize moments and offers like this on a whim. Or, perhaps he thought he did. He was familiar with other composers, but failed to realize there is always a break in rhythm or a break in the pattern of the typical. This became known to the Frenchman after the petty argument they had over ideals, and this made him nervous when it came to the musician, and very cautious all the same. Having second thoughts, he looked deeply into Roderich's eyes, curious about what thoughts were within him, but was soon snapped out of his trance when the composer spoke.

"When shall we depart? Soon, I would presume." Roderich looked irritated, glancing away from the uncomfortable stare.

Francis leaned back in his chair, attempting to act as nonchalant as possible in the given situation. "As soon as possible would be preferable. At the latest, I would say Thursday."

"Well, today is Monday, so I suppose that would give me enough time to get all the things in order. Would you like my address to access me further?"

"Sure, I'll pick you up in carriage there at the sunrise of Thursday. If I have to wait a long while and we become behind schedule, I will have to deduct it from your salary." Francis smirked, hoping that he was intimidating the Austrian man just as he did. However, this failed simply because of the fact that Roderich wasn't even aware of the fact that he was intimidating. He just had that stature, and never cared anymore than he would anything else.

"Oh, harsh. I see you've picked up on the fact the I was late today, who wouldn't?" Roderich chuckled, then continued. "Let me tell you, that isn't regularly, but I really focused on looking my best for my client."

"I'm just being straightforward, Mr. Edelstein. I hope you see to being on time, as you claim, don't make late a habit." Francis winked, standing up from the table. "I'll be seeing you Thursday, goodbye."

"To you as well, Mr. Bonaparte."

"Bonnefoy, friend, Bonnefoy."

"My apologies. I just remember someone with that name similar to you." Roderich smiled thoroughly through his lie. Truth was, he never memorized his client's names. Time doing business was short. Roderich thought that names was something trivial that got in the way after the first meeting.

Francis smiled, not appearing to mind at all. He left the money for the morning coffee on the table and walked out of the cafe with a stride of grace.

Roderich sighed. Deep within in his mind he knew that Paris was much more trouble than it was worth. Vienna was lovely, and had an abundance of clients. However, deep within his mind he also knew that he couldn't uphold his aristocratic stature much longer, it was slipping through the cracks, just as his wealth was. Too careless he was, spending all his money on the night life rather than the bills. Roderich Edelstein, the great and wondrous Viennese composer put on the mask of a greedy composer, high and mighty, plagued with greed. The man behind the mask told a much different story, the man who was plagued with need.

As he sat at the cafe table alone with his thoughts, Roderich soon remembered the waitress insulted by Francis over what he considered trivial "enlightened ideals". He saw her tending to another customer, and after she was finished with him he called her over.

"I do apologize about that man acting so barbaric either." Roderich apologized, looking as he could for an apathetic man.

"It's quite alright! It wasn't your fault, Mr. Edelstein." The waitress blushed and held her hand up to her cheek.

"I know, but that's just embarrassing coming from a client of mine."

"Oh is it?"

"Yes. I would to speak with you with your interest in lessons. I'd love to further discuss it at a later date, precisely when I return from Paris."

The waitress smiled with genuine joy. "Why, thank you so much, Mr. Edelstein! When will you be returning to Vienna and when will you be leaving for Paris?"

"When I return to Vienna is still unknown. I am composing a requiem for the man that insulted you. He says it's best I stay where he lives in Paris, double the salary. I'll be leaving on Thursday. I'd love to speak with you concerning lessons at that point, I should have the time for one on one training." Roderich smiled, looking up at the girl. He was willing to treat anyone for any amount of money, oh he so desperately needed it.

"Thank you! I look forward to your return."

"You'll still be here I presume."

"That I know of."

"Alright, miss. I don't think I caught your name."

"My name is Elizabeta Héderváry." She smiled through the strand of a light brown hair that came out of her beret.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Héderváry. I think you know me, but I'm Roderich Edelstein." He smiled taking her hand and chivalrously kissing it.

She blushed all the more. "I must get back to work, but I look forward to working with you! Goodbye!" The waitress waved, smiled as she tended to others in the cafe.

Roderich smiled as she walked away. After a little while of sitting in the cafe and watching the Vienna streets seem to waltz by in it's activity, he decided to get home and start thinking about what he'd have to do before leaving for Paris. The musician laid an extra bit of money on the table and walked out, looking for the waitress but not seeing her. Roderich shrugged it off and made his way into the streets walking towards his home.

The composer arrived at his apartment around the noon hour and laid his hands upon his piano. He began to play a simple piece he wrote long ago, and as his fingers worked themselves from muscle memory, Roderich's mind began to wonder off. He wondered why anyone from Paris would come all the way to Vienna just for him. He was talented and successful and,no doubt, arrogant at times. However, at times like these he wasn't. Roderich Edelstein was well known in Vienna, but he never thought beyond the city. Vienna was all there was, there wasn't a London or a Paris, a Rome or a Madrid. Francis claimed his mother had requested him, but it just didn't seem right to Roderich. Something was wrong, and soon after much thought on the subject he concluded it was one his many bouts of self-doubt, coming to haunt and pry at his mind yet again as it had so many other times.

The few days prior to the departure, Roderich got his things in order, packed his bags, being extra careful in regards to his finest clothing. He packed his favorite pen and ink bottle, the one that he always used to record his composing. The musician knew it was quite silly to have a connection to something as silly as a bottle of ink and a pen, but it meant right much to him, he couldn't leave without it, let alone get a new one. Regarding anything he needed to do with his finance hardly took anytime at all, as brutally honest as the reality was, Roderich had next to nothing. This is the only reason a man such as him, with a personality and essence of harsh winter air, chose to leave and throw himself into an entirely new environment.

On the Wednesday evening before his departure, Roderich found himself unable to fall asleep, knowing so by the restlessness of his heart. He could hear and feel it thumping at a low pace, only to have his mind panic and cause the thumping to grow and loudness and speed. He knew the feeling at too well, ever since he was a child this feeling would arise at times, sometimes with reasoning, at other times without. Roderich arose out of his bed with relief in his mind, knowing that this time it was with reason. Paris was a long ways away for a sheltered person such as him. Having never left Austria, he never cared much about what was going on elsewhere, unless it involved the mother country. He walked over to his windowsill sitting upon it and pulling his knees into his torso. Above, the stars twinkled, although Roderich wasn't quite sure what a star entailed and what a purpose of a star might be. All he knew was that the stars were always and had always been there. On that night they did not fail him at showing themselves and somewhere deep within the composer he knew a star, whatever it was, would never cease to be. As long as he was around on the the soils of nature, he knew they'd be shining down, and even when he ceased to gaze, they'd still be prevalent. This amazed the amazing Roderich Edelstein because he worried over silly things, or at least it seemed to him, like being stuck in Paris for whatever reason, unable to return home. Over even, as morbid as the thoughts may seem, not being to able to die in Vienna, and not being buried there, even if was just in a commoner's grave. He wanted his very soul and essence to woven into the city, and nowhere else. This is why stars were so fascinating to him, they always stayed in place, just like him, until now. He knew that whatever those things up in the sky were, that they didn't have to worry about moving and being plagued with need, they just shine for the eternities, unfaltering. Roderich, after much thought on the subject of cosmos, fell asleep upon the windowsill, gazing at the stars the danced to a score in the Viennese sky.

The sun rose and Roderich opened his eyes slowly, seeing the peek of light above the buildings of the city. He quickly got dressed and gathered his things, looking around his small apartment, knowing it'd be a long while before he dwelled there once again, and shut the door behind him. It was saddening, and he knew it shouldn't be. Time passed like a river's flow, people moved, things changed. The composer couldn't understand why he was so attached to his life and the Austrian city. Nonetheless, he ventured down the stairs and saw the carriage in front of the building, awaiting him. It was a lovely carriage, one with prestige and fanciful designs engraved in it.

"On time, Mr. Edelstein, you kept your word!" Francis smiled, standing in front of the doors to carriage.

"I did indeed!" Roderich smiled walking up to the commissioner.

Francis opened the door with a grin. "Composers first!"

"Thank you, good sir."

"Anytime."

The carriage made it's way around the corner and Roderich's home was out of sight. After seeing it's disappearance, he sighed, looking down at his fidgeting hands as they made their way to the outskirts of the city.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Took, the landlady to the apartments Roderich stayed in, went into his apartment for the daily dusting. Roderich always welcomed the older woman into his home with a smile and allowed her to deal with the trivial housework, as she insisted. As she was carefully dusting the grand piano, she noticed a sheet of compositions laid upon it, and curious she was, decided to see what great work he was doing now. She looked at the first sheet in her hands and sighed lightly as it was titled  _"Farewell, My Dear Beloved Vienna."_

 


	3. Bienvenue à Paris (Welcome to Paris)

The trip to Paris took longer than Roderich had hoped for. In his mind he played through scores and various symphonies, songs to tick away time. The carriage ride at times wasn't relatively what one would call smooth and many times times Roderich's mind slipped into a state of being that caused him to panic. His head would swim, his pulse would run rampant, and his stomach turned into an acid sea rocking mercilessly and violently here and there. At the very climax of his panic Roderich concluded he was most certainly going to die. However, as much as his mind swam in circles and collapsed in on itself, no one ever noticed. Not even Francis, who sat on the other side of the leather seating with his nose stuck in a book of ideals or writing down ideals of his own. Just as the city of Paris came into view, Roderich thought to himself that his decision to take this trip was definitely a mistake as he felt his body slipping out of his control as it had so many other times before along the journey.

" _Bienvenue à Paris_ , Mr. Edelstein!" Francis closed his journal of scribblings and smiled upon seeing his home town. "First we'll stop at your apartment, and then, if you're up for it, I'll show some of finest gatherings in the city."

"That sounds quite nice, thank you." Roderich replied clutching at the fabric of his clothing in an effort to calm himself down.

"Good." Francis winked as they entered the city's cobblestone streets.

The very streets themselves resembled Vienna, cobblestone that seemed to click and scratch upon being walked on, but the air was different. The composer knew it would feel different, but he never expected it to be as nerve wracking as it was.

After some time riding along the busy mid-morning streets, the carriage came to a stop at a building that seemed to blend in like all the others in the city. However, Roderich noted that from building to building, they all had different colors for shutters. This building just happened to have a very lively shade of crimson.

"This is where you'll be staying for our time together, Mr. Edelstein." Francis spoke as he opened the carriage doors. "I'll be showing you your apartment, so please come with me."

Roderich nodded and then sighed. He climbed out of the carriage and grabbed his suitcases, only two of them, one for his clothing, the other for his composing tools and a book or two, and walked to the front of the building. Francis grinned at the building as though it held the answers to pure truth and walked up to the door. Opening it, he beckoned Roderich to follow him.

"Your apartment is on the third floor and is 22A, it's the first one you see after climbing the stairs, so it should be easy to remember. I must warn you, it's not the largest, but it should be at the least comfortable." Francis spoke as he guided Roderich up stairs that seemed murky and could use a cleaning. At last they arrived on the third floor and Roderich spotted 22A quickly and some found himself with a key in hand, supplied by Francis of course, and standing in front of the door. The door and the hallway it was on had a brownish red color, and it was as though it was painted the same color as the shutters outside, but had had faded over time. The composer put on the key into the lock and turned it, completely forgetting about the Frenchman standing behind him.

When Roderich stepped into the Paris apartment he was, to say the least, astonished. It was small, with a bedroom and a sitting area, a small corner table, and a piano by the window. The furnishings had elegant patterns and looked as though no soul had ever used them. The one room itself seemed like the embodiment of an upper class lifestyle. Even though Roderich surrounded himself with the higher class, he was never blessed with it's essence.

"It's amazing, I thank you for such a fine place to stay in." Roderich spoke as he set his suitcases down and walked over to the grand piano by the window and ran his index finger along the keys.

"Play something! Make sure it's to your liking! I searched for the finest piano I could, and this is it. If you don't like it, I'm sure I could find you another." Francis walked to Roderich's side with a small smile, he was quite pleased and relieved with the composer's reaction to the apartment.

"All right. I'll play a short piece." Roderich sat on the piano bench and flexed his fingers. His ran through his mental archive of pieces and remembered one very short one he created when he was just a boy of five years old. He smiled to himself as nostalgia trickled into his mind like droplets of water.

He played through the very short piece and then added a few things here and there to add to it's longevity. He then added a fanciful flavor to it and concluded with a small smile directed at the Frenchman. "How was that?" He asked.

"Lovely! Exquisit! What was this piece?" Francis asked with curiosity lighting his eyes.

"It's a fairly old piece, one of my first. I wrote when I was a small boy around five. At the time it was for my mother and when I was small I titled it  _"For Mother"_  but over the course of the years I added to it and did revisions and I retitled it  _"Mother Dearest"_." Roderich sighed and ran through his years and the ones he spent with his mother. A hint of remorse washed over him and he remembered her funeral and the pieces he wrote for it. The compositions themselves he burned afterwards, but they never seemed to leave his mind and haunted him every now and again.

Francis put his arm around Roderich's shoulders as he could see the sadness arising in his eyes, but wasn't aware of why. "It's beautiful. There something in your eyes that express melancholy. Let's diminish that, shall we? There's a great cafe down the street that serves the best pastries and coffee of Paris."

Roderich smiled a smile that expressed appreciation and walked with Francis to the cafe. It's layout was similar to that of the cafe in Vienna, which made Roderich think of the very friendly and blushing young waitress the he encountered there.

Francis and Roderich sat down at a table by the window and both ordered coffee. Roderich intently focused on the bustling life on the other side of the glass and thought deeply about various things, including his mother. Soon fresh pastries came and the two started a conversation.

"Can you please tell me where the nearest cathedral is? I'd like to attend mass." Roderich asked, taking a sip of his coffee. He wasn't the most religious person to be actively practicing Catholicism, but he did like to attend mass and sacraments and always felt comforted with knowing he could go the church when needed.

"Ah, yes! Perhaps tomorrow you and I can attend mass together? I do not quite recall the location as it has been a long while, the carriage driver knows and he can take us."

"Alright. Tomorrow for the morning mass then?"

"Certainly. Then we can discuss the requiem together."

"Sounds like a good idea. I better go back to the apartment to unpack. I'll be seeing you." Roderich gave a slight smile and arose from the cafe table.

"Farewell!" Francis called back without moving from the table. He thought it would be best if he let Roderich go on his own, for a reason unknown to him. Francis wanted to ask if Roderich to see some more places around town but knew that he wouldn't be up for it. He had become fond of the composer along the journey to Paris, and even though their relationship had started with a pretty argument that didn't matter anymore. Francis hoped the relationship would remain pleasant and friendly as it had grown to be.

Roderich walked along the street and turned the corner, searching for the building with the crimson shutters. He looked up at the sky to see that it was mid-afternoon. Eventually he came upon the apartment building and climbed the stairs to 22A. He felt content with the plans of attending mass in the early morning. It had been a long while since he had done so, since it had taken quite some time to arrive in Paris. He unpacked his suitcases and placed his composing sheets by the piano with his favorite ink bottle and pin. Roderich sighed and laid on the couch with the elegant engravings and spoke to himself. "Paris is more pleasant than I thought it be, but anxiousness is what still dwells in my soul."


	4. A Console To Torment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a scene with blood and mild gore which may make some uncomfortable. Nothing too graphic, but just a warning for those who aren't too fond of it.

_**"Art is to console those who are broken by life."** _ _— Vincent Van Gogh_

 

 

 

The next day the carriage came for Roderich when dawn was barely peeking over the top of buildings. Francis greeted a friendly hello in his native tongue while the carriage slowly creaked along cobblestone streets slightly gaining speed with distance. It didn't take long to reach the cathedral and upon seeing it Roderich felt a small twinge of relief within the deep ocean of his soul. Cathedrals always gave him such a feeling, whether it was the presence of a higher power seeping into his skin, or if it was the sheer beauty of buildings such as these themselves, Roderich couldn't conclude. After little thought on the subject, he concluded that it was both that mixed together in such a wondrous manner that it calmed a soul as troubled as his.

When he entered the cathedral, the musician took a deep breath in and heard the voice of his Frenchman friend. "Lovely, isn't it?" Francis smiled. "I'd say this one may as well be the finest in France."

"Seems like it could be so." Roderich walked further into the cathedral and took a seat in one of the pews, looking above him to see a ceiling so high he wondered if anyone could be heard from the top of it. Francis took a seat beside him and neither of them said a word as the mass began. Roderich got lost in it and felt completely disconnected from everything other than his calmness, and by the end, he felt refreshed. After the mass, he followed Francis outside and listened as he spoke with people he knew, greeting them and wishing them good day. Roderich was quite surprised at the amount of people Francis acquainted himself with, but with his aristocratic nature it wasn't out of the ordinary.

"Oh, Francis! Lovely day, isn't it?" An older woman greeted in a friendly manner.

"Why, yes, Mrs. Lewis, it is!" Francis responded with a smile.

"Haven't you heard?" The old woman with the gray hair and a face worn down with the passage of time asked.

"Heard what? I hear much, not a lot that's important, but much indeed!" Francis chuckled to himself and placed his hands in his trouser pockets.

"Mrs. Clark has died within the last few days. It was a shame, she was the mother of a few children."

Roderich wasn't particularly paying attention to Francis and his conversations until this point. Upon hearing the words "died" and "mother" within the same string of breath, he turned attention to the two as nonchalantly as he could, not that they seemed to notice.

"That is quite a shame. Do you know why? She was such a pleasure always!" Francis looked sorrowful, but not completely devastated, which led Roderich to the conclusion that she was just an acquaintance or he was just really skilled in hiding pain.

"Well, she was feeling ill and told her son. The son got the doctor and she was soon bled so she could spill all that toxic blood, but not long after, she simply died!"

"A shame! The spilling of those toxins should have saved her!" Francis looked fairly shocked, as though the loss of toxic blood should have cured the illness, whatever it may have been.

At this point Roderich's eyes had widened beyond what was normal for him and his heart raced more than it should. He could feel years of suppressed emotion weltering through his subconscious, and in that moment he quickly and abruptly excused himself to the carriage and practically ran to it.

No one was in the carriage when he arrived, not even a driver, much to his relief. He sat on the leather seats and anxiously ran his hands through his hair. His emotions towards his mother returned, the guilt, the anger, the sorrow, all of it. Musical pieces that he tried to burn came screeching back into his mind like a severely untuned instrument. Just as he was about to relive his torment just as it happened so long ago, Francis opened the door to the carriage.

"Are you alright, Roderich?" He asked with more anxiousness and concern than he did with the old woman.

"Yes-"

"Don't lie to me. Something back there sparked emotion inside of you. Whether it was something said, or just your own thoughts I know not. Whatever it was sent you running for the hills!"

"Well, it's a long story.." Roderich broke eye contact with Francis and looked down at his hands that clutched the fabric of his pants.

"All the more reason to tell me." Francis smiled gently and showed an expression full of support, for what he wasn't sure of just yet.

"Why do you want to know? All you did was hire me to work for you."

"We both know we're closer than that, don't be silly. Three months of travel, we've gotten to know each other pretty well."

Roderich sighed. Francis was right, they had spent a lot of time together, the most time he'd ever spent within someone who was commissioning him. Francis had helped him through more than he'd like to admit, and they were closer than he thought they'd ever be.

"I know, I'm sorry...It's just I…" Roderich paused for a moment searching through an endless sea of racing thoughts and musical pieces that seemed to play themselves to find what to say. "I am just filled with some unsorted emotions in regards to something that happened long ago. My mother, you see, died after she was bled."

"I see. You have my apologies." Francis softly put his hand on Roderich's shoulder for the sake of sympathetic comfort, but after a moment drew away.

"I feel guilt because out of all the years and all the symphonies and scores, I didn't even write my mother a proper requiem for her funeral. Just a few pieces, after which I burned."

"Perhaps the one you'll write here will bring you closure?"

"Perhaps. But it isn't for my mother, it's for yours."

"Dedicate it to your mother. Every artist owns their work to some extent, there is always a piece of themselves within it. Dedicate to piece to your mother, and I will dedicate it to mine." Francis smiled to Roderich and Roderich did the same, a small amount of guilt left his soul. Another piece of torment that broke away from it's creator, and for that, the musician was relieved.

Later that evening Roderich went to lie down running through ideas in his head. A half note here, maybe a rest here, a time signature of this or that. These were all things he wanted for a requiem, but the notes that presented themselves just didn't fit. He tried scribbling them down on a piece of paper, jabbing at keys on a piano, nothing really worked. His mind was elsewhere, and he just didn't have the concentration that he should. All his thoughts reverted themselves back to his mother. The talk with Francis had helped his conscious, but it just could not erase all the ash that filled his mind and suffocated it slowly. He told Francis the truth, he couldn't lie about what had happened. However, he didn't tell the whole story, for he was too ashamed if it.

Roderich's mother did indeed die shortly after she was bled. She had a high fever and was on bedrest, too weak and fragile she was, and there wasn't a thing the woman could do to help herself.

"Mother, I think we should call a doctor." Roderich stated, looking at his mother with concern and anxiousness sprinkled across his delicate features.

"Ah, if you think it would help, my son. I don't know what he can do for me." She answered in a weak and watered down voice, one that had said so much over the course of time, worn down by life itself.

"He'll bleed you I'm sure." Roderich sighed, hating that methods like that had to be done. If only something less painful and gruesome was an option, oh how he'd barter for it, perhaps even give up his own soul.

Roderich contacted the doctor for an emergency appointment, but he didn't come. By this time, the state of his mother had grown worse. She had fallen into slumber and wouldn't wake up, not even with pinch of the skin or the sound of the rain clashing with the windowsill to form a  _pitter-patter_. Roderich got anxious, wondering if his mother would simply slip away into eternity without giving the doctor a chance to help her stay grounded. He knew somewhere within himself that he should take some sort of action to help her. He had already done most of what he could, but seldom is that enough. Then, he thought to himself, it shouldn't be too difficult, bleeding someone. I could do myself, take the vein, cut careful and clean. The doctor's not here, I have to do what I can.

In that moment Roderich had decided something that would torment him for all the seasons to come. To cut his own mother's veins, so that all the poisons that were slowly seeping into her and suffocating her insides would run free upon old and whitened skin. Roderich did indeed gather himself and his courage, in pieces, to do what he thought was right. However, it didn't work as intended, if it had it would be one less thing that tormented his soul. He cut the vein in the arm, like he'd seen a doctor do so many times, even on himself once or twice. Something he did wasn't right, or so he thought, for he couldn't stop the bleeding, even after he thought it to be enough. After many tries at tying a proper tourniquet, none of which worked to any benefit, Roderich slumped to the floor with bloodied hands weeping without a sound. Unbeknownst to him, his mother did die shortly after while he lie in an abyss of his own failure.

Only when someone woke him did he come to realization of the events that had taken place, but he wasn't until someone had tried to tell him first.

"Sir, don't you know?" They asked.

"Know what?" He asked in return.

"Sir, has no one told you she's not breathing? She has passed."

"Wha-"

"I am so sorry."

Soon after his mother's death Roderich entered a state of denial as psychological instincts had told him to. He swore to the highest of the heavens that they were wrong, mistakes were made. He denied the fact within himself that it was a possibility that he had cut his mother's life short and let her slip away droplet by droplet. He denied even trying to do so when anyone asked, he lied and said it was someone else, this person or that. No one questioned, and this was something Roderich was relieved and puzzled by.

Next, after time passed and things changed course, Roderich became angry, at himself mostly. He wracked his own mind, questioning why he did what he did. This phase lasted a short while, but passed to led to something more long lasting. The next step in his grief was depression. Throughout his life, Roderich had sadness lingering and swimming about his consciousness, but never to the severity it was at this point. He felt hopeless and alone, his thoughts his only company, oh how he longed for someone to share in his misery. Years and years delving deeper into a garden of darkness. His only console his music, something he bled all his misery and torment into, something that expressed his innermost thoughts in the rawest manner possible. The last stage in his grief was acceptance, which came little by little, accompanying his depression but never curing him of it. Roderich accepted that his mother had died and ascended, but he would never accept how she did so. Roderich also accepted the fact he was sure he would descend rather than ascend.

This is why Roderich composed, even before his mother's death, the reasoning was always the same. It was to console a life of misery. This was the purest reason for all the symphonies and compositions, the short ones, the long ones. Looking back, Roderich realized throughout all his years, his music was seldom played in a happy and joyful tone. It was deep, it was sorrowful, it was full of pain. People still adorned him and begged him for more, they craved it, they admired it, the let their ears soak in it. But, they never did know, and most never would. They never would know that the music performed was the product of someone else's pain. They didn't know such a genius could wallow in such pain, they didn't know that most times greatness and madness go hand-in-hand. What is the difference between greatness and madness?  _There is seldom a difference._

_The first reason as to why Roderich Edelstein was The Plagued Pianist : He was plagued with guilt._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write more in regards to the mass scene, but decided to skip off on it due to me not really knowing how to describe one. I am not Catholic, and never have attended a mass of any sort, but my characters are so I wanted to incorporate into the story at some point.
> 
> As for the mentions of bleeding, the method that was used is historically called Blood-letting. It was used for around 2,000 years and didn't really fade out in Europe until the late 18th century. It was basically the belief that withdrawal of small quantities of blood would cure someone. Most times it just made things worse, but in some cases helped relieve high blood pressure.
> 
> I also referred to Roderich's grief as occurring in phases, which I drew from the Kübler-Ross model which is also know as the five stages of grief. The five stages of grief according to this model go in the order of denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. I skipped over bargaining and went straight to depression because I couldn't really find a good way to incorporate it into the story.


	5. To Paint The Sky

Roderich awoke the morning after his first visit to the Paris cathedral feeling unrested and unfulfilled with his slumber. He had once again lived the moments with his mother, all the ones he could gather from the inner workings of his mind, the joyful ones, and the one specific one that tormented him the most. That one in particular attacked his mind like a plague and reminded him that he was of sin again and again. Even to be forgiven by the highest power would not rid of the memory that infested his mind much like vermin. And it was on mornings such as these where Roderich lost the most of himself to his own thoughts and his own intuition.

It wasn't until there was a knock at the door that Roderich snapped into his senses of reality. He answered the door to see Francis, his face cherry-kissed from the brisk air of the French capital.

"Good Morning, Roderich! How are you feeling today?" Francis asked with a light amount of concern in his voice while taking off his autumn coat and setting it on the coat rack the color of auburn.

"Ah, better than previously, thankfully. How about you?" Roderich smiled sitting on one of the heavily embroidered sofas.

"I'm doing quite well on this morning." Francis took his seat across from the composer fondling with his fingers in a fidgeting manner.

"Great to hear."

"What do think of Paris thus far my Austrian friend?" The Frenchman asked with much curiosity, hoping the that the man opposite of him hadn't regretted his decisions in regards to the past few months.

"It's a pleasant capital, it's not a disappointment if that's what you thought I was thinking. Only, I do apologize but I don't know much about French customs."

"Ah, that's quite alright! In the beginning, one can only see black and white. However, someone's black and white is another's color. Isn't it about time we all gathered our acrylics and bristles to paint the hues of each other's sky?"

Roderich smiled at the poetic response. It was something so soft and gentle, that response, something that really struck a chord within the musicians mind. He knew Francis wrote, he wrote all the time on their carriage ride together. He only wondered if his music was just as gentle.

"How poetic of you, but if only my music was the same." Roderich sighed and tapped his fingers against the arm of his sofa.

"Well, I'd say it is, but I'll never convince you so." Francis chuckled crossing his legs that bore satin. "And you'll never convince me I'm poetic, certainly I am not!"

They both chuckled at what they thought of themselves. However light it was at times like these, they both knew that their perfectionist attitudes made them fall and burn at one point or another.

"I can't say this lightly, but I received word that my mother has died. This past night, ah but I knew it all along didn't I? That's why you're here." Francis sighed, trying to hold back tears.

"There is never a time in your life when you're ready for such a thing. No matter how prepared or how many times you go over scenarios and reaction in your head, you're never ready." Roderich looked on with sympathy and put a comforting hand on the other man's shoulder.

"Oh I know it to be so! How was I so blind to not see that it is only a heartbeat that separates us from death!"

"We never accept that until we come face to face with it."

"Of course, of course."

"Perhaps we should get something to eat?" Roderich suggested with a light and gentle sincerity in his voice, the best he could given he had never really the one comforting someone rather, the one being comforted.

"Perhaps later, if you'd like, we can get a drink. I'll just go and straighten a few things out for now."

Roderich nodded, trying to think of the last time he'd had given himself a drink, or even been invited to do so, for he couldn't remember.

"I'll be seeing you." Francis grabbed his coat and walked out in a sorrowful manner.

Roderich looked on as Francis shut the door, trying not to look as though he had pity of any kind. He knew that it only made things worse, pity never made anyone feel as though they were saved. He tried not to think of all those who pitied him when his mother died.

 

 

Later on when the moonlight shone through the buildings and onto the piano of 22A, Francis returned. He knocked on the door swiftly quite a few times. Roderich answered, looking just as he did earlier in the day but displayed eyes that looked run down with the passing of day.

"Good to see you again, Francis." Roderich smiled, stepping out of the apartment and into the darkened hallway.

"You as well, Roderich." Francis smiled lightly showing eyes that were barren like the cobblestone streets of night.

They walked along the streets until they reached a window that shone with candlelight, bright and illuminating in the darkness.

"There." Francis said, his walk gaining speed as his breath dissipated into the cold.

They walked up to the door and Francis opened it, gesturing Roderich inside. When they walked in the only thing separating this tavern from the one in Vienna was the strings of French floating through the air. For an instance, it made the composer homesick and longing for everything he left behind.

However, he soon was snapped out of a nostalgic trance when Francis guided him to a few tables in the corner. They both sat and not too soon after, a waiter walked over to take orders, Francis ordering them both liquor.

"Ah, I haven't had liquor in quite some time, friend." Roderich said, a bit nervous, for he wasn't quite sure how his body would take to it.

"Me either, but why not tonight? It's as good as any." Francis responded

"I suppose you're right."

They drank much, and long throughout the night as well. Francis seemed to talk out of his head, Roderich did the same. They didn't know what they were saying, although everyone else took notice. It wasn't long until a man walked into the room, gently putting a hand onto Francis's shoulder, and sighing in an annoying manner.

"Francis, dear friend, what is it that you're doing?" He spoke.

"Ah, a drink, a toast to my friend! Dear, dear, lofty and loyal friend! You've put up with this ass of a lad long enough, haven't you?" Francis smiled and hiccuped through his next drink.

"There isn't any reason at all as to why you are doing this." The man responded.

Then Roderich took time to take notice this stranger of a man even through his fuzzed vision and malfunctioning mind. He had never once seen him around Francis, and wondered why. He had dusty white hair and was quite tall. Not many had his type of physique at all.

"Excuse me, good sir!" Roderich spoke, stumbling through his words, however not quite as lively as Francis. "May I ask you are who?"

The man sighed, looking around the room for a moment.

"No time for formalities, Francis, let's go."

"But don't leave Roderich! Such a helpless soul he is! Didn't you hear? His mother was bled half to death." Francis protested.

"I'm sure Mr. Roderich will manage." The white-haired man responded.

At this time Roderich was to the point that he didn't really notice the fact that Francis had just mentioned his mother, he was so drunk not much mattered.

"But don't you know, sirs! I am not a wad of dimwitted aristocracy! I am the Edel-!" Roderich stopped, his head spinning with music notes and pieces that formed atrocities in his head. With so many things swimming through his mind, he couldn't even properly piece together his own name.

"Well, that's wonderful. Goodbye." The white- haired man ushered the drunken Francis out of the tavern and into the dark cobblestone streets, him blabbering all the same.

"Don't forget to sky paint, dear Francis!" Roderich called out, soon after slumping into his seat at the table, now alone. After some time the virtuoso blacked out completely.

 

 

Roderich awakened to the bright light of early morning. All he could see was the ceiling, and it wasn't the dark brown color of the tavern. He leaned up, clutching his head and groaning in agony.

"Ah, you're awake. How are you, lad?" A voice spoke, one he didn't quite recognize.

"Where am I?" Roderich asked, his hands searching his face for glasses that weren't there.

"I should explain. You don't remember last night, do you?" The man spoke handing Roderich his glasses.

"I remember going to a tavern with my friend, Francis. After that, it is all quite a blur." The composer responded, putting his glasses back onto his face, everything much more clear than before, not to the help of his headache.

"You were a wasted man if I have ever seen one! After your friend left, it didn't seem like you knew how to get home. I asked you for your address a few times, but all you said was 'Vienna' over and over again. I certainly wasn't going to leave you there, it's quite dangerous after closing time! So, I brought you here to my apartment. I should've introduced myself by now, my name is Arthur Kirkland."

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kirkland. I'm Roderich Edelstein." Roderich sat up all the way and looked at the other man, who had sandy blond hair and deep emerald eyes that looked as though they reflected the forest.

"So I've heard, through your ramblings." Arthur chuckled lightly getting up crossing the room. "Tea to sooth that head of yours, perhaps?"

"Alright, thank you very much. But why did you bring me here, you really could've left me out on the streets."

"I really wouldn't do that to you, perhaps to someone else, but not you. I recognized the name as soon as you said it! A fine composer you are, I never thought I'd find you outside the walls of Vienna."

"I really didn't think so either."

"Life surprises us all now doesn't it?" Arthur spoke as he passed Roderich a cup full of tea.

"Appears to be so." Roderich responded, taking a sip of the tea, the taste spreading through his mouth in a spice-filled sea of pleasure. "I should really thank you, I'm new to town honestly. I didn't think Francis would walk out on me, I do remember that much."

"You're Welcome, lad. Now, I did see that. Strange man he went with."

"I'm not entirely sure of who he is." Roderich sighed, wondering who that strange man was, and why Francis had never really mentioned him before.

"I seen him around, a mysterious one he is. Don't know his name, but he always acts as though he is on business."

Roderich and Arthur talked for a while, getting to know each other well. Roderich learned that Arthur was from England and in Paris on a business trip, a situation similar to his. He felt better knowing that someone else was feeling the same, and it calmed his soul a bit. After a while, Roderich thought it would best to get home and try to get a hold of Francis, he was a bit worried about him.

"I should get going, I'd hate to burden you any more. I also need to find Francis."

"It's not problem at all. It's a pleasure to talk to you, Mr. Edelstein. Perhaps we should stay in touch."

"Certainly. Here's my address. To be quite honest, I'm not sure how to get there from here."

"I know where that is, I walk you home." Arthur smiled, grabbing his jacket and handing Roderich his.

"Thank you."

"Shall we go?"

"Of course."


	6. Music To Please Holy Ears

Arthur and Roderich soon found themselves in front of the building with the crimson shudders. Roderich was quite relieved to see it after the night he had, only bits and pieces of which he could remember. He was still anxious about the whereabouts of his Frenchman friend, who he hadn't heard from since leaving the tavern.

Roderich led Arthur to his apartment, going to unlock the door but finding it was already cracked just wide enough for the sunlight to show sparkling dust in the air. Opening it slightly, Roderich peered inside with a confused Arthur standing behind. When the room came into view, Roderich found that Francis was laying very comfortably on his couch with a handkerchief covering his eyes, presumably hiding them from the light.

"Francis! What are you doing here? Or better yet, how did you get in here?" The composer asked with surprise and relief intertwining themselves in his mind.

"Oh, I kept the extra key." Francis exclaimed, not moving the slightest bit.

"Well, that would've been nice to know." Roderich mumbled to Arthur, unknowingly to Francis.

"I don't remember how I got here, actually." The Frenchman responded as he heard footsteps coming closer to him. "Roderich, are you alone?"

"No, I brought a guest."

"Oh! Pardon me, a guest!" Francis quickly lifted himself up, the handkerchief falling off his face in the process. "Who is this guest?"

"Arthur Kirkland, this Francis Bonnefoy." Roderich gestured towards Arthur and then to Francis, who was trying to nonchalantly shelter his eyes from the morning sun.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kirkland." Francis responded stretching his hand out for the other to shake.

"To you as well, Mr. Bonnefoy." Arthur smiled in a friendly manner, shaking hands with Francis.

"Francis, who was that man last night?" Roderich asked, sitting the couch opposite to Francis, followed by Arthur.

"Ah, that was Gilbert. A friend. I was going to introduce you two but he's always busy."

"I've seen him around, he seems like a businessman." Arthur said in a tone that seemed like he was pondering something in his mind that he wouldn't say aloud.

"Yes! Yes, he is! Sells things, this or that, a salesman. He is also one of the intellectuals." Francis responded rather quickly, as though seizing the opportunity to cover something up or keep anyone from questioning any further.

"Interesting. Perhaps we'll meet soon." Roderich spoke, thinking that the response was very peculiar and anxious. He concluded that he would have to discuss it with Francis later on in private.

"Also, since I'm here, we should discuss that requiem." Francis quickly changed the subject, scratching his head and squinting his eyes as sunlight hit his face.

"Ah, yes. I have a few drafts on the beginning, and I already had begun to jot a few things down beyond that. I'd say it's off to a good start."

"Wonderful, wonderful! I'm glad to hear it. Well, I'll be off, I've to take care of a few things today." Francis jolted off the couch almost as if he didn't recently become intoxicated recently. He walked a few feet, stumbled slightly, and was out the door while Roderich chased after him, trying to fit in a goodbye.

"I'll be seeing you rather soon, right?" The virtuoso called out as his friend was traveling down the stairs.

"Yes, yes, of course! I'll visit by within the next few days! Good Day!" With that said, the Frenchman was out the door and onto the cobblestone streets where the click-clack of his shoes blended into the hustle and bustle of the day.

Roderich stood leaning over the creaking rails of the staircase, the floor was sodden under his feet as though they'd just been scrubbed thoroughly. He stood in the quiet. The only noise to be heard was the eerie background static of the streets outside, hushed by brick wall that protected the composer from whatever lie outside. He thought for a moment, letting his fingers dangle over the side of the railing and moved them to follow the dust floating through the air, pushing them here and there.

After that moment expired, Roderich realized that Arthur was still inside his apartment and rushed back, worried that wasn't treating his guest as well as he should.

"Excuse me, that was rather unexpected!" Roderich remarked as he shut the door behind him, letting it creak and groan as it closed.

"Appeared to be so!" Arthur responded with a small, yet genuine smile.

"My apologies."

"Don't worry about it, it's quite alright."

Quite some time passed and Roderich and Arthur began to talk about a variety of things. The composer played few pieces for the Englishman, who seemed to be in awe at the sounds that streamed into his ears like a river's flow. After finishing a rather long piece, Roderich sighed, not to Arthur's notice.

"Simply splendid! It's midday, I'll be going now. I hope to see you again soon, Mr. Edelstein."

"To you as well, and I cannot thank you enough for what you did for me last night."

"No problem, my friend! Good Day." With that said, Arthur was out the door, with his footsteps echoing throughout. Roderich watched through the window as he made his way out into the streets, his shoes clashing with the cobblestone.

Roderich was now alone.

He thought about the continuation of the requiem, one that he thought to belonged to him as much and if not more than Francis. He had already poured much of himself into it and would be dissatisfied if it didn't fit something he'd want played for himself when reaches the point of eternal slumber. It would be even more of a disappointment if the composer didn't believe it would please holy ears. Even if everyone who was to ever walk thought the work to be absolutely unexplainable in it's beauty and composition, it wouldn't matter at all to Roderich if he didn't think it would please the heavens. This was the reason so many drafts of the requiem had been burned during the night, the fire crackling and groaning as though it hated to destroy such a thing. Roderich became frustrated, running through notes in his head, playing things in his mind, only to reach the piano to find they were unsatisfactory. After a while, he stopped composing with the piano completely and only used his mind, scribbling things here and there. The pen glided over the paper with grace and the ink seeped into it, never smearing or smudging, as though they were satisfied with what they represented. After time stretched on into the evening and another bout of dissatisfaction forced it's way into Rodierch's mind, he hastily shoved all the composing tools to the side and sighed while holding his head.

At this moment Roderich was frustrated with his very own outlet, which usually allowed all frustrations to dissolve, but on occasion created them. Thankfully, as a young boy he had found an outlet for his outlet : writing. Although he didn't believe himself to be good at the art of writing, he didn't think himself to be an atrocious writer. He used it as a pure way of venting, something that could in the vaguest of terms be considered raw.

Roderich pulled out a leather-bound notebook that he used for times like these and flipped through the pages to see scribblings of frustrations and unorganized grandeur. At the least they were dated properly, which Roderich was immensely thankful for. The last entry had been made quite some time before, and the virtuoso thought to make the habit of writing more often, at least for future's reference.

He opened to a clean page, the page crinkling with delight, and began to write with his favorite ink pen :

_On days like these my journeys in the realm of composition do not delight me like one would expect. Well, the never really do. I am never delighted with my work, but it does put my soul at ease, which is quite the topic, so I'll save that for a different day. However there is something that troubles me today. My compositions are not up to par, more than usual. You see, my music is not only to console my mind and soul, but to please Holy ears. If my music fails to do so, then it is nothing more than a trail of sand on a summer evening coast that will eventually wither and blow away. If it does, than I am at peace, I am content. When it comes to composition, I ask for nothing more than that. But if I have achieved this goal I know not. I hope the answer will soon come to me. I do believe that the fate of my soul has already been determined and I do not take that into consideration. And sometimes I am even troubled more so by the thought that I cannot create such heavenly music because I myself would not be worthy of hearing such a delight, I myself is not worthy of such a gift of pure musical bliss. These are quite troubling notations, and they plague me more often than not, this day especially so._

After writing a short paragraph, Roderich concluded he had written all that needed to be conveyed. He closed the book and stored it away inside his desk so no one's sticky hands may find it out in the open, and then stood, his eyes catching sight of the moon. This caused him to realize the time, and instead of laying in the silk of the bed to sleep, Roderich chose to lay upon the windowsill, gazing at the stars which brought him much comfort. He fell asleep while admiring the cosmos, still inconclusive as to what they were.

The second reason as to why Roderich Edelstein was  ** _The Plagued Pianist_**  :  _He was plagued with uncertainty._


	7. A Lullaby For The Insomniac

As the days passed the guilt and uncertainty that plagued the composer's mind only worsened. The guilt was stretched across a plethora of things, not just the past events in regards to his mother. The uncertainty had the same effect, causing Roderich to lay in his bed night twisting and turning restlessly as his mind worked against peaceful slumber instead of for it.

The dawn's light crept upon the window of Roderich's apartment as he eyes closed and his mind gave into slumber after a night of fighting against it. The day passed and soon it was midday when there was a knock at the door. Roderich awoke with a jump and a surprise, looking out the window and realizing the time of day. He heard the knocking again and rushed for something to put over his night clothes. The closest thing he could find was his coat, and hastily slipped it on along with the nearest shoes he could find.

He walked up to the door and opened it, heaving a little sigh in the process. The door opened to a smiling Arthur Kirkland and a string of greetings.

"It's nice to see you, Mr. Kirkland." Roderich smiled through his fatigue, trying to cover up as much as he could, although the darkened patches under his eyes gave his condition away.

"You as well! Just call me Arthur, I'm sure we're on a first-name basis by now."

"Ah, yes of course! Enough with the formalities, call me Roderich." Roderich smiled, taking a seat with the British gentleman on the couch.

"Oh dear! I'm sorry if I'm keeping you, I'll leave if you need me to." Arthur's face contorted into a look of concern.

"What? I'm not going anywhere, don't worry!" The virtuoso exclaimed, at first confused as to why Arthur would say such a thing, then realizing he still wasn't properly dressed.

"But you've got your coat on like you're about to go somewhere, my lad!" Arthur chuckled a bit and then continued, "Either it's unusually cold in here or you have somewhere to be!"

"To be completely honest, I'm not properly dressed. I was asleep when I heard the knock at the door." Roderich decided to tell the truth instead of risking anything peculiar happening.

"Asleep? But, it's midday! Are you feeling alright? Do you have an illness?"

"No, no, do not worry! I'm just a bit of an insomniac is all. Sleep is such a delicacy, I wish for me it was easier to obtain!" Roderich sighed, letting go of any attempt to hide his tiredness. He let his shoulders slouch and his eyes droop slightly, eyelashes colliding with the glass of his spectacles.

"Insomnia? That is a very serious matter, my friend. I do not wish to see you deprived of something you need! Perhaps you should speak with a doctor, he might have a solution for you."

The words rattled in Roderich's mind. A doctor was never something that passed through his thoughts as a solution. Most times he would just try to solve problems himself, even so when it concerned his health. Although after a while Roderich concluded he wasn't much of a solution, either. From that moment on he decided just to let his problems dwell, thinking that perhaps they would fizzle out themselves.

"A doctor?" Roderich questioned, not exactly to Arthur, but to himself as he let the thought echo through him.

"Yes, I can recommend a good one for you. I had a cut on my arm and had to see the doctor a few months back, he was very friendly and helpful."

"Alright. I'd appreciate that, thank you."

"Anytime, my friend." Arthur smiled, a friendly and supportive look in his eyes.

 

 

Roderich walked down the bustling streets at an anxious pace as he searched for the doctor's office that Arthur had recommended to him. Through a crowd he caught a glimpse of writing on a sign just a little ways away that read " _Dr. Hoffman's Medical Clinic_ ". He sighed and walked up to the building, the front window blurry with the remnants of someone's fingerprints.

The door creaked and groaned as Roderich opened it, garnering the attention of a woman sitting at a small desk across the room.

"Hello. May I make an appointment to see Dr. Hoffman please?" Roderich asked the woman, walking up to the desk while fiddling with one the brass buttons on his shirt.

"I don't know. I'd say so, he's a doctor isn't he?" The woman sighed, looking at the lace that formed fanciful patterns on her fingertips.

"Well, yes. Can you please tell me where I can find him?" The composer ran fingers through his hair in a nervous act.

"Probably with a patient. You'll have to wait, take a seat, sir." The woman huffed, taking a hairpin from one of her brunette tresses and tossing it on the desk. "This hairstyle simply won't do!" She mumbled to herself.

Roderich sat on a wooden chair that squeaked as he sat on it, the legs uneasy as though they'd crumbled and send him crashing towards the dusty floor at any moment. He sat there in a patient manner with his hands politely folded in his lap, staring at the woman across the room who was angrily yanking hairpins from her hair. His thoughts wandered from subject to subject, and after a while focused purely on why the woman was there and what exactly she was doing.

A long while passed and Roderich's mind slipped off and his thoughts dulled just enough for him to drift to sleep. However, his eyes opened abruptly when the door squeaked shut and he saw a glimpse of a man walking into the street. Roderich looked up to see the woman leaned back in her chair fast asleep, and with an entirely new hairdo.

"Sweetheart, I think I'm finished for the day!" A man called out, somewhat in a sing-song voice but not quite.

"No, no, my dear! You've got one more patient." The woman responded yawning and tapping her heel on the floor. "And this is Mister-?"

"Edelstein. Mr. Edelstein." Roderich stood up brushing his palms on his pants quickly while looking for the man who spoke moments earlier.

"Alright, I can take one more. Say, I don't think I've seen you before." The man appeared in front of an open door leading into another room. He was tall in stature, quite thin, and had very high cheekbones with thinning brown hair. Glasses sat upon his face, similar in style to Roderich's but looked slightly more worn down.

"Hello, Mr. Edelstein. I'm Dr. Hoffman. Please come with me." The man smiled with a friendly greeting and gestured towards the room.

Roderich followed him, feeling his heart race with every step, so much so that he could feel it pulsing through his fingertips and into his head. He took a seat on another wooden chair, this time in front a table that was caught between another chair. The table wasn't very wide, and was in a circular shape. Across the room in front of a window sat a bed with tan sheets and flat pillows. The room gave off an eering chill and the air itself came off as sterile. It didn't help the feeling as the sun was just above the buildings, only a few hours from setting.

"So, Mr. Edelstein, what's troubling you?" Dr. Hoffman asked as he sat in the chair on the other side of the table.

"To be honest, I'd been troubled with bouts of insomnia." The virtuoso once again began to fiddle with his clothing while he tried not to focus too much on the quickening of his pulse.

"Ah, that's fairly common! But mostly, it's not something that just comes by itself, and is just a sign of something larger. Don't you worry, though, we'll figure it all out." The doctor gave a comforting smile and folded his hands on the table. "Have you been feeling any other physical pains lately?"

"Nothing I've taken notice too."

"Peculiar. How have you been feeling overall?"

"Ah, a bit jumbled honestly. I just moved here from Vienna. I'm trying to learn everything there is to know about the city." Roderich felt a lump form in his throat as he mentioned his home city. He felt a feeling rush through him like a gust of wind as memories bombarded his thought plain.

"I see. Stressful, I presume?"

"Indeed."

"I think I have come to a small conclusion, Mr. Edelstein." Dr. Hoffman rose from his chair and ventured across the room to a cabinet in the corner, one that Roderich had not noticed before. "I believe that stress may be playing a part in your insomnia. There may be more to it, more within those deep crevices of your mind. Whatever troubles you builds up and soon enough, you're stressed about everything. I'm going to give you something that'll help with the insomnia." He opened the cabinet and rummaged through it, pulling out a circular, thin can. It was only half of a fingertip tall and could fit in the doctor's palm. Dr. Hoffman set it on the table, pushing it toward Roderich.

"What is this?" Roderich looked closer at the container. There was a word spelled out across the front in such in a fanciful font that he couldn't make sense of it.

"This is opium. It is used for a variety of things, for pain, the insane, and insomniacs. I've given you only a small amount, which should be enough to cure your insomnia. It can be dangerous in large doses, so be careful. Just a half a teaspoon, the equivalent of perhaps more than few pinches of salt should do."

"Alright. Thank you, doctor." Roderich took the can into his hand looking at it with curiosity. He had heard of opium before, but had never known of anyone using it.

"You're welcome. Once that container is gone, come back and see me so I know how you're doing."

"Yes, sir. Thank you so much."

"Anytime, Mr. Edelstein."

Later that night Roderich found himself unable to find sleep within the depths of his mind and body once again. He arose from his bed, emitting a yawn, and searched for the tin can that he left on top of his piano when had arrived home. The pianist looked at it's lettering, now clearer than it was before.  _Opium_ , it read. It seemed so peculiar to Roderich, like it held something more than just pleasant dreams. What connotation that would be was completely unknown to him. However, his mind grew irritated with the lack of rest and begged for relief, begged for dark silence. He unscrewed the top and separated the can into two, seeing brown powder fly up into the air, dissipating soon afterwards. There was more powder in the can, resembling something like flour. Roderich put in finger into it, feeling the soft texture very much like powder on top of a breakfast pastry or the sugar in the early morning's coffee. Pinching some into his hands, the composers let it fall into his mouth, feeling it land onto his tongue. He swallowed quickly.

After a few moments, Roderich sighed and whispered to himself. "Perhaps this is a lullaby for an insomniac?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As for the introduction of opium into the story, I did a fair amount of research on the topic and I discovered that the drug was used for practically everything back in the 18th and 19th centuries and prior to that as well. If you were insane, they gave you opium, pain - opium, insomnia - opium. I will try to describe it the best I can based on my research, but if I make mistakes, I apologize. I've never actually seen it, so I have to take what I've gathered through my research and run with it.
> 
> And finally, I don't think I ever did that disclaimer thing. Saying I don't own the characters or the show it was based off of and all that jazz. So here it is : I don't own the characters or Hetalia, they belong to some one else.


	8. In The Bitterness of Coffee

The opium Roderich took lulled him into the abyss with a soothing whisper of nonsense while it numbed his pain.  It lifted his mind high up into the clouds, his thoughts bubbling with positivity and self-motivation, things that just seemed like childish nostalgia to him.  He woke in the early morning, the sunshine peeking through the windows, dimly and carefully over the buildings.   The composer’s mind was clear, which was quite the feat, for his mind was usually a spun out ball of yarn with tangled thoughts and self-disapproval.   

Roderich lifted his body of out the bed, as lightly as the feathers on a skyward dove, and got dressed adequately.  Then he went to fix himself a morning’s cup of coffee, but quickly decided against it, and instead decided to visit the nearest cafe.

So on that day, for the first time in a long while, Roderich walked out onto the cobblestone streets and into the hustle and bustle the early morning’s sun, and into a cafe.  The cafe was warm and pleasant with the heat of freshly cooked pastries.  It welcomed the composer with friendly greetings and the murmurs of pastime conversations.  Taking a seat, Roderich ordered a coffee and a pastry, then gazed out the window at men, women, and children walking through the streets.  Some looked content, others irritated, some even laughing with a skip in their walk.  The virtuoso looked here and there, not focusing on anyone in particular.  He wondered what life meant to them, if they feared what he did, or even if they had experienced what he did.  Someone to relate to was all the composer had ever desired. It was what the concept he embellished into his cosmos when he looked upon them at night.  It was the want and need that intertwined with his pain in between the notes of his renowned compositions.

These thoughts left Roderich’s mind as soon as his morning’s coffee was served to him.  It was in that moment that his thoughts on the people outside were halted, and new thoughts took their place.  He stirred in some sugar with a tiny silver spoon, one engraved with fanciful designs and vaguely scratched out of usage.  The sugar immediately rushed in the memory of the previous night’s experiences, one that was peculiar but not necessarily unwanted.  He remembered taking the opium and letting it flow into his body, and feeling it run through his veins in a manner completely foreign to him.

While recalling those memories, Roderich took a sip of his coffee  to find that not only was it not to his liking, it was bitter.  And upon tasting the bitterness of his coffee, the great Roderich Edelstein concluded that never before in his life had he experienced anything quite like opium.  The rush and the euphoria, a wondrous feeling the notes of a symphony could never live up to,  something not even the deepest crevices of his mind could create.  He concluded he liked it.  It did more than just cure insomnia, it temporarily erased years of thorn-sharp pain that pierced his mind and his soul.  Opium transcended the power of music, opium transcended the power of hope and faith.  Even though the coffee was not to his preference, Roderich continued to drink until the cup was empty, for in that bitter taste he had realized the rediscovery of feelings long since past.  And that realization in itself pleased the composer greatly.

After spending much of the morning street-gazing in the cafe, Roderich went back to the apartment to find a neatly folded note on his doorstep.  Picking it up, he opened his door and stepped inside his apartment to be greeted by bright and unsettling sunlight shining into his eyes.  Closing the door and moving out the sun’s path, Roderich opened the note carefully to inspect it’s contents.  He saw that it was from Francis and read through it quickly.

****  
  


_Dear Roderich,_

__

_It has been a little while since we last spoke! I came to speak with you on this fine morning, only to discover you weren’t here! Wherever you were, I hope you had a lovely time.  However, instead of risking an instance like this again, I’d like to make a proposal.  If possible or convenient, meet me at the tavern at 7:00 so we can catch up and perhaps discuss that requiem of yours.  And also, there is someone I’d like you to properly meet._

_Warm Regards,_

_Francis._

****  
  
  


Roderich sighed just a little upon reading the note.  Francis was a client, so he honestly did not have the choice of refusal in the matter, but he most certainly did not wish to become intoxicated again.  However, Francis had become more to Roderich than just another client whose name he forgot the second they met, he was a friend.

Roderich also wondered if the man Francis referred to was the one in the tavern the first night he was there.   That white-haired man gave off an aura of urgency and mysteriousness that Roderich couldn’t rid his mind of ever since he’d seen him.    The composer hoped that visiting the tavern would garner the answers he was looking for.

****  
  
  


Later that day, when the evening became prevalent, Roderich found himself opening the creaky wooden doors of the tavern once again.   He immediately saw Francis in the corner table, waving and smiling joyously.  The Frenchman wore the same flamboyant outfit he had when they met for the first time in Vienna, and that rushed in memories that seemed like an eternity ago.  Roderich walked over to the dark brown wooden table and sat down in a chair that seemed like it could give way at any moment.  He smiled a false smile, one that showed a lie of being content and covered the truth of sadness.

“Good Evening, Roderich! How are you today?” Francis asked, taking a sip of what Roderich noted as coffee.

“I am doing well. And you?” Roderich replied after ordering a cup of coffee for himself.

“Splendid! Meeting my fellow friends at the tavern to discuss enlightened ideals is extremely refreshing. Found any ideals that are to your liking?”  

“Ah, no my friend! I haven’t had the time! There are far too many notes floating around in this head of mine.” Roderich chuckled at his own comment, which was indeed a truthful one.

“Look into it before you go! I’m sure you’ll find something that’s to your liking.” Francis smiled, drawing circles into his leather-bound notebook, one Roderich recalled seeing him continuously writing in on the journey to Paris.   He remembered  it was the notebook that Francis wrote all his ideals into, something that was no doubt extremely valuable to the Frenchman.

“I’ll find the time, I’m sure of it.” Roderich curved his mouth upwards into what was almost a reassuring smile, but not quite.  He couldn’t reassure himself let alone anyone else, whether it be through physical expression or the spoken word. “I believe that in your letter you spoke of me meeting someone?”

“Ah, yes, I sure did.  His name is Gilbert, I told him seven o’clock, why is always late?” Francis questioned in an irritated manner.

Roderich sorted his memories and soon realized that Francis had mentioned a man named Gilbert on the day Arthur visited the apartment.  He remembered Gilbert being described as busy. Someone who seemed far too busy to stop and have a cup of coffee with the accompaniment of casual talk.  Gilbert was the white-haired man who walked with an urgency in his step.

“So, how’s the requiem coming along?” Francis inquired, snapping Roderich out of his thoughts and causing him to blink once or twice.

“Quite well, actually, I’d say I’m just about to the halfway point.” The composer stirred more sugar into his coffee, reminding himself of the luring effects of opium.  He scolded his mind for getting too far off track and not paying the proper attention to what was in front of him - a friend.

“That’s great to hear! Perhaps I could stop by one day to hear some of it?”

“Anytime, my friend, anytime.”

At that time Roderich heard the creaking of the tavern door, and looked to see who it was.  It was a white-haired man, one he presumed to be Gilbert.  The man walked over to the table and sat in a chair beside Francis, the wood it was made out of groaning in the process.

“Hello Francis.  And hello to you as well, sir.” Gilbert said, his voice sounding a bit daunting but not too deep.  “I don’t think I know your name.”

“Roderich Edelstein.” The composer responded, folding his hands on the table which displayed his elongated fingers.  “What is yours, good sir?”

“Ah, the piano man.” Gilbert spoke again,  which lead to Roderich to detect an accent that sounded German in origin.  This intrigued the composer greatly.  “My name is Gilbert Beilschmidt.  Pleasure to meet you Mr. Edelstein.”

“To you as well, Mr. Beilschmidt.”

“Mr. Edelstein, may I ask, where are you from?” Gilbert asked rather politely after ordering a cup of water.

“I am from Austria.”

“I see, you’re from Vienna I would presume.”

“Well, most recently, yes.” The composer chuckled lightly.  “I spent my childhood years in Klagenfurt.  I moved to Vienna as a young man.”

“Interesting.  I myself am from Prussia.  I have lived my entire life in Berlin, well until now of course.”

“I see you two are getting along quite well.” Francis smirked, driving his nose into his coffee cup.

“We’ve only just met, I don’t see why we wouldn’t.” Gilbert replied, stirring sugar into his water with an old and scratched metal spoon.  It seemed to Roderich that sugar was continuously showing itself to remind him of the opium.   The composer wondered if he really used that much sugar in everyday life or was just especially keen to it because of recent events.

“So, what do you do for a living, Mr. Beilschmidt?” Roderich’s curiosity found it’s way to his tongue and formulated words.  He wondered if that was a good or bad thing.

“I sell things mostly, I work for a shop on the other side of the city.”

“Ah I see.  As I assume you know, I compose.  And, I never did ask you Francis, but how did you make your money?” Roderich’s curiosity came shining through once again.

“I come from a family of famous French merchants.  I am not one for selling things, though. I inherited my father’s money and now I work at the printing press, not that I’d have to, but books are a passion of mine.”

“Oh I see.” The composer’s curiosity was not entirely sated, but it did provide some answers.

****  
  
  


Later on that evening when Roderich returned to his apartment after meeting with Francis and Gilbert, his mind was at ease with answers to a few of the questions that continually circled his mind like bees in a flower field.  Gilbert was indeed a peculiar man, and Roderich wasn’t entirely sure of what to think, but from first impressions he seemed to be a man filled with a sense of dignity.  

Roderich sat at his piano and ran his fingers through his hair.  It was silky and smooth to the touch, just as the virtuoso wished his mind would be.  Instead, the inner workings of his head tangled into rough edges and sharp, dagger-like cliffs.  He scribbled at his compositions, scratching out note after note, putting them to eternal rest.  He shuffled his papers, leaving one to the fireplace and tearing another in two.  His perfectionist mindset set him back two whole days. Although this would have made most cringe, Roderich felt hot and sickly with shame.  To him, his work was never quite right, rather only merely mediocre.   He considered setting to flame his entire requiem, but did not only because it would take too much time to start over.   Starting over meant a longer wait to go home, and he missed home.  He missed home terribly.

So on that evening when he couldn’t rid his mind of his troubles, Roderich once again reached for the opium.  Sleep seemed so far out of reach for his body alone, like running in a hallway that in time only gets longer.  Opium in way stopped the hallway’s long progression and allowed him to reach the door at the end of it.   And within that door, not only was there sleep, but peace beyond what the composer had ever experienced.  The euphoria washed over him the gentle salt water tidal waves and relaxed his soul.  And at long last, it was quiet.

 


	9. The Serenity of The Salt Water Sea

The Madness Between The Notes

Chapter 9 : The Serenity of The Salt Water Sea

As time passed Roderich began to take note of the weather and how it had began to rain more often than it had when he arrived. The requiem was nearly complete, and would be finished within the week given that the composer worked diligently. Francis had visited once or twice to hear portions of the piece, and applauded in amazement. The approval pleased Roderich, but was nowhere near satisfying.

The evenings evolved into a new routine. It involved composing until dissatisfaction settled, and then taking a daily dosage of opium to rest. When Roderich began taking the opium, he used to it diligently and carefully, just as the doctor prescribed. However, as time passed, he found that it took more to achieve a euphoric state than previously. The dosage heightened, as the amount the virtuoso took depend on his mood. If he was relatively calm, only a little. If he was in a panic, Roderich would fumble for can and take as much as his shaking fingers would allow. He soon found there wasn't much left, the bottom of the can shinning silver when the candlelight shined upon it. Roderich sighed with discontent at the thought that he would have to visit the doctor once again.

One day when Roderich was at working on the requiem, he heard a quick and short knock at the door. He immediately opened the door to find that it was Arthur, smiling with his hair and clothing slightly wet from the rain.

"Hello Arthur! Please, come in and warm yourself by the fire." Roderich smiled and welcomed Arthur in his humble apartment.

"Thank you, lad! I thought I'd stop by since we haven't spoken in a while!" Arthur took a seat by the fireplace and warmed his hands.

"It has been a long while indeed! How are you, my friend?" Roderich sat near Arthur, crossing his satin-covered legs and folding his hands in a polite manner.

"Quite well. I should ask the same of you."

"Well! Just working on pieces as usual."

"Splendid! How are your compositions coming along?"

"Good, good. I am almost finished with the requiem. I should be able to deliver it to Francis by the end of next week." Roderich spoke, sighing slightly with relief. Just a little more time would pass before he was homeward bound. And it gave him great solace.

"Wonderful! I'm sure he'll think it's lovely." Arthur gave a reassuring smile and ruffled his dampened hair.

"He's very pleased with what he's heard so far. Would you like some tea?" Roderich asked, making his way across the apartment.

"Sure, that's sounds great. Thank you!" Arthur stood to follow Roderich. Upon standing, the top of the piano became visible to him. He saw an array of items including a glittering tin can. Curious, Arthur nonchalantly walked over to the piano to examine it in greater detail. He saw the lettering on the can, one that was in a fanciful font. Opium. Reading it made Arthur's heart drop far into his ribcage in a swift motion. He walked over to where Roderich was preparing tea with a completely new demeanor.

"Roderich…." Arthur stopped at saying the Austrian's name, a tight knot forming in the back of his throat. "Just how well are you?"

Roderich stopped his motions immediately in complete shock. He wondered what would trigger Arthur to ask such a thing, and if he given any clues to such an inquiry. His heart began to beat fast and his hands became clammy. The composer was at a loss on how to respond and his expression sent that message. After several seconds of pin-drop silence, he responded in a nervous tone. "What on Earth would make you ask such a thing, my friend?"

"You have opium. That's used for so many things, I can't possibly know what you're using it for. Please, I'm not trying to pry in your business, but can you tell me what's wrong? I know we haven't known each other long, put your trust in me. I am coming from a genuine place, one full of concern."

"I believe that I told you I had insomnia once before. The doctor you recommended gave me the opium to cure it. " Roderich's throat became dry at speaking the word opium. Just saying the word out loud caused a feeling to jostle within him that longed for it. The feeling was desperate and nagging, but not to the point of needy.

"I see. So is your insomnia any better?"

"Much, actually. I have to thank you for the doctor recommendation. He was quite pleasant."

"You're most certainly welcome." Arthur paused for a moment before continuing. "Roderich, how does opium make you feel?"

This question made the composer swallow hard. It caused a slight pain in his throat almost as though he was choking on the crisp air. He knew exactly how it felt. He also knew exactly how much he'd come to rely on it. If it had come to be a good or bad thing, he couldn't decide.

"I...I don't.." Roderich caught on his words, he tried to find to the right explantation as he searched the depths of his mind. "I don't know if I can explain it well… but… At times I find that my mind is a roaring sea. It's full of my thoughts, my sorrows and pains. It's full of music notes dancing around like fish in the ocean. And it makes me deathly afraid. The power of this sea, it's origin in the mind, causes seawater to spread all throughout my body, rushing through my veins. It keeps me awake at night, the waves crashing and thrashing fiercely. And do you know where my mind is? My sane, rational, content, mind? Way out in the water, I can see it swimming and fighting the current, choking on salt water. I can't retrieve it. I soon lose sight of it and don't know where it is. My head is collapsing. I panic and my body is out of my control. I then reach for the opium. I ingest it and let it flow through my veins, just as the treacherous sea water does. Do you know what that opium does? It calms my mind's treacherous sea and soothes the pain that accompanied it. And soon enough, I find serenity in that salt water sea. I am at peace, there no raging tidal waves and the waters no longer frighten me. Those dancing little fish are gone, and my music flows to me within the wind as a soft and cooling breeze. It stays that way until the opium wears off, and of course, the treachery heightens and begins again. "

Arthur sat in shock for a moment at the explanation. He believed it to a very vast explanation, and never in his life had he heard someone describe their mental state in such a metaphor. He couldn't speak for many moments. There was silence in the room.

"And your mind? What happens to it?" Arthur finally questioned nervously.

"My mind? The sane, rational, content, one? During times of peace, I would float through the calming waters and ask myself, Where is my mind? I don't see it anywhere. Way out in the water, it's not there. I wonder for many moments, and then come to a realization. It sunk far into the depths of the sea. It's nowhere to be found. You see, it sinks because even in a time of peace, I am not sane, I am not rational, and I am not content."

"Why not content?" Arthur asked, his tone serious yet curious.

"Why not? When I take the opium I can never be content, for I surpass that. My mind often experiences polar opposites, either it is in pain to an unbearable point, or it is peaceful and joyful beyond what I ever perceived possible. There is no room for content. That's why it sinks in the sea, there's no where for it to go." Roderich's voice cracked as tears surfaced within his eyes. He did not want to show Arthur these tears, for he believed they showed weakness in a man. However, he already considered himself a weak man for admitting what he just did. So, he let the tears fall, not that he could contain them. He could hardly breath, he was choking on the air that was flowing into him.

Arthur reacted quickly, and not without the sympathy he would never show. He embraced the composer in a comforting manner without hesitation. Roderich wept into the Englishman's shoulder and did not do so without feeling sickly with shame. He was ashamed of acting in such a way, but he could not control it. Arthur ran his hand up and down Roderich's back in an attempt to give him solace. The look in his eyes were of sadness and pity, not that it was noticed.

"I am so sorry Arthur Kirkland." Roderich heaved into Arthur's shoulder. He tears were still falling, but no longer in bursts of sobs.

"Why are you sorry? There is no reason for you to be sorry, the pain most certainly isn't. There is nothing to be ashamed of, I assure you." Arthur responded, his voice soft.

"I am weak, I am a burden."

"Nonsense, my friend. The pain has no shame. You try to leave on the shore and run for the sea, trying to sail away. But, soon enough you find that it has followed you, and it has started drowning you in your own waters. "

At this statement Roderich once again wept fiercely into Arthur's shoulder. And after a long while, formulated a response.

"And I go into the water to find my mind, and only to find myself lost. I feel that the pain creeps up just as my mind is sailing far, far away. I am there in the water, looking and looking. The pain catches up and it feels as though I am dead in the water. But I can still feel the water turn into a treacherous sea. And I can feel it's toxic salt water in my bones."

Roderich sniffled and quickly took a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing his eyes carefully. He looked at the tea he was preparing. It was warm, but almost to the point of being slightly cold. Picking up a teacup, he sipped at the tea slowly. Though cooled significantly, it was still extremely potent.

"Roderich, perhaps you should lay down and rest for a while." Arthur suggested, touching Roderich's shoulder gently.

"That would probably be best." Roderich coughed slightly and cleared his throat after. He walked to the bedroom in his apartment. He barely picked up his feet, creating a soft scraping sound on the floor. Arthur followed close behind.

Roderich entered the bedroom and looked upon his large bedding. The sheets were covered in elegant patterns and splattered with an array of soft and gentle winter-like colors. It was lovely, but he quickly decided not to climb under them, for the sun was shining brightly into the room. So he slowly climbed on top of his bed, laying on his side. He then patted the bedding to signal Arthur to come and sit with him. Arthur followed, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the other man carefully.

"Would you like to know a composer's secret, Arthur?" Roderich spoke with a quiet voice, one that was intertwined with a sigh. He had his eyes closed and his face seemed relaxed. It looked as though he had closed his eyes to ponder something.

"If you're willing to share with me." Arthur responded, staring somewhat loosely at the bedding his was sitting on.

"It would be entirely untrue of me to say I do the things I do for the people. They love it, I know that. So I let them pay me for it. It has never once occurred to anyone that my music is incredibly repetitive. They all sound like they are one in the same. Do you know why? It's because the way I feel never changes. I always feel the same, so in turn, my music stays the same. I am someone getting paid to wallow around in my own pain. Have you ever heard of such of thing? Isn't it preposterous?"

"I-I would say so."

"So here's the secret : This composer cares not for other people's desires and pleasure, but rather his own feelings. He does not aim to appease, but does so unintentionally. Is it a curse? A blessing? I don't know. And if this composer should ever tell you he didn't crave the fame and the applause, damn him as a lair."

The conversation faded off, which resulted in Roderich and Arthur being in silence for a long while. Arthur looked over to Roderich and assumed him to be asleep. So, he arose from his sitting position and walked towards the door, planning to leave Roderich to sleep in peace. When he reached the doorframe of the bedroom he heard a voice mumble from the opposite side of the room.

"I am plagued, my dear Arthur, plagued."

Arthur said nothing in response, but looked on for a moment with sympathy flooding his veins. He quietly left the apartment, shutting the door and trying to avoid it's squeak.

Roderich Edelstein was The Plagued Pianist, for he believed so intently. This reason alone triumphs over all other reasons, mentioned or otherwise unmentioned, because when one declares themselves something, is often incredibly difficult to get them to change their mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, thanks for reading up to this point and I hope you have enjoyed it thus far! I try not to use my Author's Note to ramble, but I would like to comment on a few things.
> 
> I would just like to say that my story is both asexual and aromantic in it's nature. I don't know if I would go as far as to say my version of the characters are asexual and aromantic, but neither sex nor romance hold any place in the story. I would say that the this story's version of Roderich could very well be placed somewhere on the asexual and aromantic spectrums because he has dedicated his life completely to his passion for music and nothing else. I am sorry if you read this story hoping to find some romantic elements, but this story has none and never will.
> 
> I have gotten to the point in my writing that I'd much rather focus on elements that are not sexual or romantic. I feel this side of life is neglected at times, with society's notion that a lover will come to save you from your problems, or you'll find a lover to comfort you in your time of need, or rather they'll find you. They'll make your dreams come true, dreams you never even knew you had. You'll fall in love, get married, have kids, and all will be well. I don't believe that. I believe love can bring you great happiness, but I don't believe anyone is going to come and save me and make my life a wonderland. I don't believe my other half is out there somewhere, I am whole and I have my own intuition, and this is something I want to reflect in this story.
> 
> I'm sorry for the ramble, but I need to comment on this because of this chapter. The scene where Arthur comforts Roderich is not romantic, but rather showing human emotions and humanity between two characters. No one should be afraid of being weak for showing emotions and no one should hesitate to comfort someone when in need. Comfort does not always equal romance. Emotion does not always equal weakness.
> 
> Society believes that you cannot be asexual or aromantic (or sometimes both!) which is also a silly notion.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> -Yuripee


	10. A Pianist's Solo

The Madness Between The Notes   
Chapter 10 : A Pianist’s Solo

 

After Arthur left Roderich fell into a deep sleep. It wasn’t the kind of sleep that keeps one in a peaceful silence, it was the dreadful and troubling sleep that pierced through walls of the mind. It caused Roderich to awake in a sweat to find that it was almost sunrise. Deciding that he had rested more than what he considered necessary, Roderich went about his usual morning routine. He made coffee and started composing, noticing more natural light become available to him as time wore on. 

Roderich went on to compose for many hours, pushing his mind to the limit of effectiveness in an effort to complete the requiem. His fingers ached and the ink smeared at certain points in the composition but it didn’t seem to matter. Roderich had entered a fit of desperation. Finishing the piece was no longer just about returning home. It was the anxiety of being so close to finishing the piece that made him push himself further. At times his mind would locate the opium and seemed to beg for it. However, Roderich pushed away the thoughts with anger. He was angry for the distraction, he was angry that he craved the drug so badly. He untangled the notes floating around his head and they scrambled onto paper. The keys on the piano seemed to call to Roderich, as though they were screaming at him to work faster. It was chaotic and noisy inside the composer’s mind.   
And then, it all went silent. The last of the piano’s echoes rang through the apartment, and after that there nothing to be heard. The requiem was at last finished. The silence was broken with the sound of Roderich’s heaving breaths of relief. 

He sat for a moment, letting the quill slip through his fingertips and fall to the floor. The quill spotted the floor with ink, and rolled underneath the piano. Roderich couldn’t believe that he had finished the piece. The size was far larger than anything he had ever written before. It’s melody was beautiful to the common ear, but melancholic to the musical one. Roderich considered it his most successful piece, it satisfied him just to the point where he would leave it be. He sat in the quiet staring at the composition’s final page until there was a swift knock at the door.  
Roderich got up slowly, which caused the guest to knock again. When opening the door he saw that it was Francis, who was smiling joyously.  
“Hello, Roderich! I came by to see how you’re doing!” Francis greeted while taking off his light coat.   
“Francis! You have come just at the right moment. I have finished your requiem.” Roderich responded with a small smile.  
“Oh lovely! You’re happy with it?”  
“As satisfied with it as I’ll ever be.” Roderich chuckled a bit, trying to make light of his perfectionist attitude.  
“Good, good. I came to ask you something as well.” Francis sat on the sofa as Roderich followed.  
“Oh?”  
“Yes. There is an opening a for a pianist at the club at attend regularly. I was wondering if you’d be interested in performing again.”  
Roderich thought about the prospect of performing. It had been a long while since he had performed, and the rush of an audience’s approval always gave him power. He nodded his head in approval and responded, “Yes, I’d be interested. It’s been a while.”  
“Great! How does tonight sound?” Francis’s eyes glittered with excitement as he awaited for an answer.  
“Francis, that’s such a short notice. Luckily, I am a man with nothing else to do.”  
“Fantastic! Here, I’ll give you the address. Call for a carriage, they’ll know it for sure.” Francis smiled and scribbled an address on a spare piece of paper. “I’ll see you later, yes?”  
Roderich smiled and ruffled his hair with his hand. “Of course.”

Day turned to night and Roderich soon found himself in a carriage. He was wearing his best outfit, one he always saved for performances or meetings. The carriage arrived at the club and Roderich stepped inside. The air was somewhat stuffy, and the sound of chatter filled the air. Everyone in the club looked of higher stature, and Roderich could hear strings of intellectual conversation. He soon spotted Francis, who was waving and smiling.  
“Roderich! It’s great to see you!” Francis, said his back leaning on a wooden table with four chairs to accompany it.   
“Great to see you as well, Francis.” Roderich greeted, taking a seat, Francis following.  
“Listen, you’ll perform in about an hour. Look over there.” Francis pointed across the club to a small stage that was covered in velvet curtain. “That’s where performances are. The music and performances are suppose to be somewhat background noise, but you being who you are, will most likely garner the club’s full attention.”  
“I see. I’ll garner the whole club’s attention you say?” Roderich chuckled, being doubtful.  
“Of course! Roderich Edelstein, here in Paris? Most may not recognize your appearance, but the name will surely turn heads. Did you know that many travel to Vienna just to see you perform?”  
“I didn’t realize I was such a well-known figure.”  
“You are, you are! I invited your friend to see you, Arnold right?”  
“No, his name is Arthur.”  
“Ah, yes that’s right. He should be here shortly.”  
Roderich and Francis sat in silence for a little while. Francis stirred sugar in his coffee and Roderich fiddled with a napkin on the table. Then, someone sat down at the table with them. They both looked up to find that it was Gilbert, who seemed to have been caught in the rain.  
“Gilbert! I thought that you would come, that’s why I got a table of four.” Francis said, placing his cup on the table.   
“Of course. I finally get to see the Piano Man in his natural environment.” Gilbert smiled, looking at Roderich. “Good Evening.”   
“Good Evening. It’s nice to see you again.” Roderich responded, smiling back.  
“It’s a pleasure to see you again.” Gilbert said, taking a sip of Francis’ coffee, which caused the Frenchman to roll his eyes.  
“Sorry, am I late?” A voice called out, which belonged to Arthur.  
“Oh not at all, take a seat!” Roderich greeted his friend, watching him take a seat at the table.   
“Good. I was beginning to worry that I was! It’s a pleasure to see you perform, never thought I would!” Arthur chuckled, taking off his coat and hanging it on the back of his chair.  
“Arthur, this is Francis and Gilbert.” Roderich introduced to the two other men at the table, and they all exchanged handshakes.   
“This is most likely going to be your only performance in Paris, isn’t it?” Arthur questioned, tapping his fingers on the table.  
“I would say so. A first that is also a last it would seem.” Roderich responded, his voice somewhat quiet.  
“When will you be returning to Vienna?” Gilbert asked.  
“As soon as I play the requiem for Francis and he approves, I suppose.” Roderich made eye contact with Francis, who smiled and nodded in response. 

The four men sat at the table and talked until it was time for Roderich to go backstage. The performances before his were merely background noise to add to the ambiance of the club, performers would some heads on occasion. Roderich knew that when his name was called, his performance would not be just background noise. It would turn every head and silence would prevail. It unnerved him to a point, although he didn’t often get stage fright. Francis stood next to him to keep him company.   
“Do you get stage fright, Roderich?” Francis asked, tossing a coin to pass the time.   
“Not often, but every once in a while.” Roderich responded, fiddling with the tin opium can in his pocket. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was nervous. It had been so long since he had stepped on the stage by himself and sat at a piano. The opium beckoned him with its promise of relief. Roderich took the tin can from his pocket and opened the lid, careful not to let anyone see it’s name. “Do you mind?” He asked Francis.  
“Not at all. What do you take that for?” Francis responded. Francis had often taken medicines for various things, and being an intellectual, was up to date on healthcare.   
“Anxiety, Insomnia.”   
“I see.”  
Talking ceased as Roderich took the opium. It had been a while since he had gone backstage, and he wondered if he had left the table too early. After a while, Roderich began to feel the opium’s effects and was called on stage.  
“Remember, my friend, a pianist’s solo is when you get to see who they really are. It’s raw and it’s pure.” Roderich said to Francis, whose face contorted at the thought. Then, he pulled the curtain and walked on stage. 

When Roderich stepped onstage, it was exactly how he expected it to be. All heads turned, some with faces of shock and surprise. And most of all, there was absolute silence. He sat down at the piano and began to play. The song was slow at first, but picked up speed and tone as it progressed. Roderich had the idea of what he was playing, but as he progressed lost sight of it and started improvising. The notes he played were of no particular piece and was nothing he had ever thought of before. As the piece progressed, Roderich began to lose his concentration. He fingers would slip over the keys and he couldn’t remember where he was going to place them next. He didn’t know how the audience was reacting, for he had blocked them out of his mind completely. As Roderich reached the end of his performance, he vision became impaired and it was difficult to keep his eyes open completely. He ended the performance by slamming his palms on the piano’s keys, and standing up shakily. The audience clapped with what seemed like approval. The faces looked impressed, it was as though they had no clue that the whole piece was improvised. Roderich took his bow, his head rushing and his hands sweating. He stood from his bow, looking across the audience at their standing ovation. Roderich stepped once, stepped twice, and then collapsed, his audience's clapping ceasing.


End file.
